Me, I'm a Thief
by Laughable Breakdowns
Summary: One would not have to look very hard at Genevieve Moriarty's life to see that it had never been normal, but when her dad sends her to go live semi-undercover at 221b Baker Street, her life cannot get any stranger. What originally begins as a reluctant mission to gather info about Sherlock's life becomes something more. What happens when John and Sherlock begin to grow on Genevieve?
1. Fuck you, Jim

Chapter One: Fuck you, Jim

**A/N: This has been rewritten to be longer and to give the characters more back story and depth. They were quite flat before and the story was boring.**

14. March. 2011

One wouldn't need a long look at Genevieve Moriarty's life to know that she had never been anywhere near normal. Not even close. She would have loved to be a regular seventeen year old, with boy drama and exams and parents who 'just didn't get it', but it was difficult, considering the fact that her father was the most powerful criminal mastermind in Britain.

Her dad, Jim Moriarty, was a 'Consulting Criminal' as he liked to put it, a 'Fix it Jim'. To put it simply, when people wanted someone dead, they came to Genevieve's father and he would take care of it. Murders weren't his only project, though; he preferred to be a jack of all trades. Terrorism, thieving…he even had eyes inside the British Government, as well as others. The fact that he was a jack of all trades absolutely _did not _make him a master of none, either – quite the opposite. He was rich, and powerful, and dangerous, and by default that made Genevieve equally so. Jim Moriarty was a spider at the centre of a web - a puppet master, and with a simple tug of a string he could bring down half of London if he wished.

Therefore, it was easy to see how Genevieve had always had the shadow of her dad's work hanging over her life. When she was younger she used to think that it was wicked cool, and what kid wouldn't? Her dad killed people for a living! Genevieve had demonstrated her appreciation of her dad's job quite intelligently during the first grade, when a despicable girl had chosen to make Genevieve the target of her bullying. The girl had been throwing bits of eraser at her from the back of the room, and Genevieve, finally fed up, had turned around and hissed to the girl that her father could kill her in a seconds notice. She had gone on to describe rather nastily how her father would do this; suffice to say, she had been pulled out of school the week afterwards and had been homeschooled ever since. Much to Genevieve's horror, the girl who had bullied her was maimed in a car accident three days later.

After that incident, Genevieve realised that she would need to distance herself from others, unless she wanted to see the little boy who pulled her hair in the park in the morgue the next day, or the boy who cheated on her in the back of an ambulance. She kept her distance from her dad's work, declining offers to go on jobs with him in favour of staying home and practicing piano, or reading. She loved her dad, but she didn't want anything to do with the murders. She didn't make many friends, either, for fear that they would be murdered if they ever decided to opt out of the friendship or something of the sort. She spoke to people on the internet that she would consider friends, but she told them as little about her dad's job as possible – meaning, next to nothing - and she told her dad even less about them.

It was alright. Her dad generally respected her decisions to not get too involved in his lifestyle – they had always been close, even though most fathers would be at a loss, trying to connect with a seventeen year old girl. He pried often, asking her if she wanted to go on a job, but for the most part it remained a known fact that she wasn't interested. He made sure not to kill anyone who pissed her off, which was good. Genevieve firmly disagreed with murder, especially the murder of relatively innocent people. Most days, she let people live.

On this particular day, a Saturday, Genevieve was relaxed. She had finished her chores – an hour of piano practice, that week's homework – and was now speaking with one of her online friends. She had around six people that she spoke to regularly, all relatively intelligent, able to carry on a conversation about things like music, or life, or art. She valued their friendship greatly, as she usually only spoke to her dad's maids and chefs and bodyguards. She was relatively quiet in real life, partially a product of never having friends to speak to in person, and partially because it was simply how she was. She wasn't shy – she simply didn't speak if she had nothing to say.

Genevieve smiled at her computer screen. She was chatting with her friend Miriam, who she had met around a year ago on a music forum (full of rather unintelligent people - she hadn't bothered to speak to many of them). Genevieve had noticed a post of Miriam's on the forum and had messaged her on impulse, asking her who her favourite composer was. It turned out that they got on extraordinarily well, although they had nearly nothing in common asides from a love of piano. Miriam claimed to be a twenty-three year old woman working in a bookshop in the United States of America, and while it would be easy enough for Genevieve to find out if this was true, she didn't really care. It didn't bother Genevieve whether or not Miriam was lying – she could be a fifty-three year old man living in India for all she cared – as long as they could carry on conversations.

_Conversation / Genevieve and ~*Miriam 3*~/ 00:15_

_Genevieve 4:55 pm: Do you ever get tired of this? The routine, the never having anything new happen?_

_~*Miriam 3*~ 4:56 pm: Sometimes, yeah. All the days tend to blur together when you're doing the same thing – wake up, eat, shower, work, home, sleep, wake up. But you must have it harder, you're dad's pretty strict, right?_

_Genevieve 4:58 pm: Yeah, he's really strict. He doesn't let me out very often, but then again, I don't want to go out very often either. What would I do, see a film? That's not my sort of thing, haha…but sometimes I find this all so boring. You're right – wake up, eat, school, piano, eat, internet, sleep…but I'm not sure that I would welcome change if I actually had the chance to go out and do something. If a fairy godmother appeared and told me that I could be someone else, somewhere else, I probably wouldn't say yes. _

_~*Miriam 3*~ 4:58 pm: Why not? Scared? Not you, you're fearless! LOL!_

All of Genevieve's friends seemed to be under the impression that Genevieve was bold and brave, probably because she often told them about the times that she stood up to her dad – they called him the Big Bad Wolf – and because of her use of sarcasm. She was quiet, but that didn't mean she couldn't hold her own.

_Genevieve 4:59 pm: No, not scared just…I'm not sure that lazy is the right word, either...I always fantasize about doing something exciting, but I think that deep down I'm not the adventurous type. I crave it, sure, but in the end I would miss my bed and my house, my cat, my dad. I suppose I'm cautious. _

Genevieve heard footsteps on the stairs outside her bedroom and new that it was her dad, come to pretend to complain to her about his job. Then he would tell her to get ready for dinner. It happened every day.

_Genevieve 5:01 pm: Wolf is here, talk to you later. _

Almost as soon as she had clicked enter, Genevieve's door was thrown open and Jim Moriarty pranced into her bedroom, flopping down rather ungracefully onto Genevieve's bed.

"I. Am. So. Exhausted!" The consulting criminal sighed loudly and stared at the ceiling, his dress-pant-clad legs hanging off of the edge of Genevieve's bed. He was looking quite dapper in a black suit and a purple tie, but his face and the front of his shirt was speckled with blood. Genevieve wrinkled her nose and closed the lid of her laptop.

"If you're covered in blood," she said, slipping her laptop into her desk drawer and getting up to sit down beside her dad, "I don't want you on my bed."

Genevieve felt immensely comfortable around her father. He was fun, and while he certainly teased her often enough to the point of being cruel, most days Genevieve was quite sure that he cared for her. She could be herself around him, even if she had to keep her personal life – or what little of it there was – away from him. Of course, she didn't tell him many of the things that she told her online friends, but she didn't have to change the way she acted to please him. He didn't expect more of her than she could give. They frequently had clashes of opinion, of course, usually resulting in blow-up fights, but wasn't that true of all teenagers and their parents?

Her dad picked up a pillow and threw it at her lightly. "Oh, don't be so boring, Genny dear! Live a little. Aren't you going to ask me why I'm so tired?"

Genevieve smiled affectionately and rolled her eyes. She was used to this exchange – it happened nearly every day when her Dad got home from work. He liked to pretend that he hated his job, but Genevieve knew that he adored it.

"Fine, but I'm not playing twenty questions, so you'd better just tell me. Why are you so tired, dad?"

Her father sat up suddenly and threw his hands up in the air. "The old girl just wouldn't _die_! The client wanted her to have a slow and painful death, and that's always super fun, but I'm not sure that she meant _that_ slow! Bo-ooooring!" He flopped back down on the bed.

Genevieve smirked. Her dad was always one for dramatics. "I'm sure you loved that, don't lie." He had probably prolonged the woman's death just so that he could complain about it later.

The criminal widened his eyes and stuck out his bottom lip, sitting up again. "Who, me?" He pouted innocently for a moment before his face transformed into a grin. "What did you do today, love?"

Genevieve looked at him, unblinking. "What I do every day," she said, deadpan. "I practiced piano, played with the cat, ate, finished my homework, organized my closet."

Moriarty scowled. "Boring, Genevieve! Boring!" Then he smiled. "You should come to a job one day with me, love. I think you would truly find it interesting. It wouldn't have to be a murder – we could rob a bank, stage a murder and get someone out of the country…I'm sure that you would find it _super _fun!" He rolled onto his side and stretched like a cat, closing his eyes.

Genevieve huffed, pulling her legs up so that she was sitting cross legged. "No, dad."

Her father opened his eyes and frowned. "Really? Not even one little job? C'mon, a bit of daddy-daughter bonding time!"

Genevieve sighed. "If you want to bond, we can go to the cinema. I get that killing, stealing, etcetera is your job, but I don't agree with it and I'm not coming with you. It's risky, and most of the people that you kill aren't even bad people. They're mothers and fathers or sons and daughters with people who love them."

Her dad smiled wryly, "And, obviously, people who _don't _love them."

Genevieve took a deep breath, clenching her fists. Genevieve's father noticed her expression and sat up, patting her hand. "Sorry, sweetheart. I'll stop asking – wouldn't wanna make you angry!" He pulled a funny face and Genevieve snorted. He was so, _so_ stupid.

"Yeah, yeah, whatever," she said with a smile, still slightly ruffled at her dad's proposition.

The Consulting Criminal smirked at her and stood up. "Get dressed for dinner, sugarplum. I've got something super-_duper _to tell you tonight!" He ruffled Genevieve's hair and waltzed out of the room.

Genevieve cringed and fixed her hair. "You better not've had blood on your hands," she shouted after him. "And take a shower!"

* * *

Dinner was a very important occasion in the Moriarty house, filled with fancy clothes and formalities and five courses…at least. Genevieve's father was usually quite busy with work, leaving as early as five in the morning when Genevieve wasn't awake, and not getting home until usually five in the evening. Although her father valued his work, he also valued his time with his daughter (he would never admit this fact to her, but Genevieve could tell) and therefore made it part of his job to have dinner with her every night. He would schedule meetings and projects around their dinner time.

Genevieve chose her dress for dinner quickly, a shimmery midnight blue halter. She spun around in front of her mirror, smiling to herself before pulling her hair into a low pony-tail. Most teenagers were insecure about their looks, but Genevieve had come to terms with her appearance a long time ago. It was a petty thing to be concerned about, anyway; the mind was much more important. Besides, when one was confident in their appearance and had overcome that teenage awkwardness, they could use their looks to get what they wanted. Genevieve had tried this out a few times on her father's hired guards, getting them to give her access to her father's documents when she was especially bored. Manipulation wasn't exactly something she prided herself on, but it came in useful.

Genevieve exited her room and took the stairs two at a time, quite aware of the fact that she was five minutes late (she had lost track of time in the shower). She raced through the house, pulling a pair of silver flats out of the main closet and slipping them on as she stumbled into the dining room.

Her father was already seated at the table when she got there, and he raised an eyebrow at her as she burst in, out of breath. One of the waiters pulled out her chair and she smiled at him, sitting down gracefully.

"I should start making you do chores every time you're late, honey-bun," her father joked fondly, only half seriously. Genevieve laughed.

"If you wanted me to do chores, then you'd have to pay me as much as you do the maids."

Moriarty smirked. "Not a chance, sweetie pie. Now, did you want to hear what surprise I have for you?"

A bowl of soup – the first course – was placed in front of them. It was a starter of clam chowder, her dad's favourite food. He called it his guilty pleasure. "Sure," she said, dipping her spoon into the soup.

Moriarty grinned. "You're going on a little vacation!"

Genevieve frowned. "We are?" They never left London unless it was for her dad's job – the criminal was always too busy with work to leave town.

Her dad sighed dramatically, twirling his spoon. "Not _us_, lovey, you! …Do you remember Sherlock Holmes?"

Genevieve felt her stomach drop. If this 'vacation' had something to do with Sherlock Holmes, then it couldn't be anything good. Sherlock Holmes was practically all that Genevieve's father talked about – the 'Consulting Detective', as he called himself, was her father's obsession. He talked about him so often that Genevieve almost felt that she knew the man. He was brilliant, her dad said, but boring…less boring than normal people, of course, but still boring. On the side of the angels.

Frankly, Genevieve thought that he sounded stupid – intelligent, sure, but arrogant and reckless, one of the worst combinations there was was. From the stories her dad had told her, it seemed as though Sherlock Holmes rushed into situations with little or no plan whatsoever, simply to prove that he could. That wasn't what a real genius was, Genevieve thought. Real geniuses didn't need to prove it to anybody. He father seemed to admire him well enough, though – he thought of Sherlock as his equal.

"Of course I do," Genevieve said. "You talk about him often enough. What does he have to do with this vacation?" She put a spoonful of soup into her mouth.

"Well," the consulting criminal said, grinning widely, "how would you like to go live with him and that pet of his? Only for a little while, of course, I just need a spy on the inside and I figure that-"

"What?" Genevieve interrupted him and he stopped mid-word, closing his mouth slowly. She narrowed her eyes. "Did I just mishear you, dad, or…?"

Moriarty gave her a dirty look. "No, Genevieve, you did not 'mishear' me." Then he grinned happily. "You're going off to live with Sherlock Holmes! Isn't that just grand? See, I want a spy on the inside to see what Sherly's up to – his likes, his dislikes, his feelings…all that jazz! And I figured – oh, don't look at me like that, love," he said of Genevieve's sour expression, "I figured that you'd be perfect for the job!"

Genevieve took a deep breath, trying to reign in the anger that had begun to bubble up inside of her. "I think…maybe I'm misunderstanding you, dad, but are you asking me to go and live with your celebrity crush? Sherlock Holmes the Consulting Detective?" She paused, narrowing her eyes at him. "Because I have to say that if you _are_, then that's the worst idea that I've ever heard come out of your mouth, and you're not as intelligent as I thought."

Her father's face was stolid throughout Genevieve's short speech, but when she stopped talking a quiet, cold anger began to spread across his features, an expression that reminded Genevieve exactly what her father's job was. She kept her face as blank as possible.

"Genevieve, _dear_," her dad spat mockingly, "I assure you that I am just as intelligent as I was before I presented you with my idea. Now, please explain to me exactly what is so horrific about this? I need information, and you have nothing better to do."

Genevieve clenched her teeth, determined not to let anger cloud her judgment. "First of all, I don't even know Sherlock Holmes. What makes you think that I want to go live with someone that I've never even met? Secondly, if you proposing what I think – a 'spy' mission – then this could get dangerous, and I refuse to be part of it. I won't be put in danger because of your stupid fetish. Do I have to remind you that the most recent meeting you had with Sherlock Holmes involves bombs and guns? And you want to put your seventeen year old daughter right in the middle of that…nice."

Nearly a year prior, Genevieve's father had decided to play a rather dangerous game of cat and mouse with Sherlock Holmes, involving bombs (planted by her father) and ending with a night-time meeting at a public pool with Sherlock Holmes and his friend – his pet, her dad called him – John Watson. It was dangerous and stupid and Genevieve thought that it was horrendously unintelligent of her father to put so much time into his game, or whatever it was, with Sherlock Holmes. He was putting his neck out on the line 'because he was bored' and it had almost gotten him killed.

Genevieve watched her father react to what she had said, his expression transforming from 'angry' to 'murderous rage' within a matter of seconds. He stood up quickly, striding over towards Genevieve's side of the table. She stood up calmly, her jaw set, refusing to flinch as her dad grabbed her shoulders and dug his nails into Genevieve's skin hard enough to bruise. He leaned in so close that their noses were almost touching. Genevieve could smell the clam chowder on his breath. She glared at him, standing her ground.

"Don't think that you know anything about my motives, my job or my interactions with people outside of it, Genevieve Moriarty. You underestimate me on all levels imaginable. Do not _ever_," he punctuated his last word with a squeeze and Genevieve held back a flinch, "_ever _believe that you are more intelligent than I am. Ever. Remember that I could quite easily make your life a living hell, and hear me when I say this, _baby-cakes_: You will do what I say."

Genevieve was breathing hard, biting the inside of her cheeks to try and keep her lip from trembling.

He father looked at her for a moment, his eyes cold, before releasing her shoulders and pushing her lightly. "Go," he began, not breaking eye contact, "to. Your. Room."

Genevieve stared at him defiantly. "Fuck you, Jim," she said, glaring at him before turning around and walking away as casually as possible. She wouldn't give her father the satisfaction of seeing how shaken she was. Even when she felt warm tears begin to spill down her cheeks, she kept her pace even until she got up to her room. She closed her bedroom door quietly and then threw herself onto her bed, finally allowing the sobs that had been building up to escape.

Why should she, Genevieve Moriarty, a seventeen year old girl who should be staying at home, talking to friends, dressing up, sleeping in…why should she have to go live with a man that she had never met to feed her dad's strange obsession? He was bored, fine; he wanted an equal, _fine_. He could have his fun, and that was his problem. Genevieve thought it was irresponsible and perilously stupid but she wouldn't get involved, because _it was none of her business_. This made it her business, though, and that she didn't like. She didn't get involved in dangerous and stupid things, because she wasn't stupid. Her emotions didn't rule her brain, her brain ruled her emotions. She craved mental stimulation, yes, but she wasn't about to go risk her life and her reputation to get it. That was the main difference between her and Jim Moriarty.

As much as Genevieve hated it, though, once her dad got an idea into his head it didn't leave. She _would _go live with Sherlock Holmes whether she wanted to or not, he had made that very clear.

She shifted to pull her pink duvet up over her shoulders, burying her face into it. She took a deep breath and tried (unsuccessfully) to slow her crying.

She would go and live with Sherlock Holmes if she had to, but that didn't mean that she would have to get mixed up in whatever dramatic power struggle he and her father were involved in. She would go in, do what she had to do and she would _not _put herself at risk.

Somehow she knew that it wouldn't be that easy, but the thought calmed her slightly.

She pulled the duvet up over her head and let herself cry.


	2. Man With a Plan

Chapter Two; A Man With a Plan

14. March. 2011

"Genevieve, honey, come on," said Jim Moriarty, knocking on his daughter's door for the fourth time that evening. When there was no reply, Jim sighed. He had raised her better than this.

Sure, Jim felt a little bit guilty about how upset he had made Genevieve, making her even less likely to willingly follow through with his plans, blah blah blah, but he reckoned that he had absolutely been in the right. Had his request _really _been that unfair? Nope! Of course not! He never asked her to do anything besides homework and piano practice, anyway. Most teenagers would have to do chores, but not Genevieve. She had never had to do a thing in her life, so really, him asking her to go live with Sherly-pie wasn't such a big deal at all.

He didn't regret his decision whatsoever. Jim had a plan, and he needed Genevieve's help in order to go through with it. He only regretted that the plan was making Genevieve upset…and therefore less compliant.

Most people believed that Jim was incapable of affection, but in his opinion, that was strictly untrue. While he couldn't exactly love people, he could certainly become used to them, come to care about their well-being – even if it was for his own satisfaction. Jim couldn't see the point in caring for any old person – how pointless! What would he get from that? But caring for someone who was useful? Well, that was an entirely different story.

When Jim had held Genevieve in his arms for the first time, he had been absolutely mesmerized by the fact that she was a part of him. He had _made _her! Well…co-made. As he held her, looking at her wrinkled-up baby face, he couldn't help but feel God-like. He was originally awkward around her, not exactly sure what to do, but he grew more and more used to her overtime. With every milestone she reached – walking, talking - he felt immense pride, almost as though her accomplishments were his own. He had helped make her, after all, so didn't he technically play a role in all of her successes by default? She resembled him, too, with a slightly heart shaped face, large eyes...and she had _definitely _gotten his temper! Jim snorted, remembering their little tiff earlier that evening. Genevieve's only problem was that she was mind-numbingly boring – levelheaded, responsible – but the qualities that she had inherited from Jim made up for it.

Jim, sick of trying to coerce his daughter into opening the door, pulled a lock-pick out of his pocket and began fiddling around with the doorknob until the lock clicked open. He pushed to door ajar, entering the room quietly.

Genevieve was buried like some sort of large mole underneath her rose-pink duvet, one foot sticking out and hanging off the edge of her bed. A few strands of brown hair peaked out from underneath the blanket, dark against the light pink sheets. Her form looked quiet and peaceful, the only movement being the rise and fall of the duvet as she breathed.

Jim sat down on the edge of the bed and gently tickled the sole of her foot. There was a squeak from underneath the blankets and Jim grinned when Genevieve pulled her foot back, slowly emerging from her den to shoot daggers at him.

"What the fuck? …Did you pick my lock?" She sat up, still glaring.

Jim bit his lip, trying to stop smiling. "Sorry, I couldn't resist."

Genevieve rubbed her eyes. "I'm living with a five year old, really. I was sleeping, and when someone's door is locked that usually means that they don't want people to come in. Besides, I know what you're here to say and I don't want to hear it right now. I'm angry and you're angry so maybe we should just talk tomorrow. "

"I just want to explain, sweetie," Jim said softly, "and I'm not mad at you anymore. That would be counter-productive, Genny! Bitterness is a paralytic, you know, and we Moriartys have things to do!"

"We?" Genevieve muttered under her breath. "Fine. Shoot. Tell me about this idea of yours. If I'm going to do this then I want to approve of the plan." Genevieve brushed a strand of hair behind her ear and Jim noticed how grown up she looked. Well, what did he expect, silly? She _was _grown up - definitely not the little girl that he used to know. Almost old enough to start learning the ropes of the business…

"So you'll do it?"

Genevieve stared at him through slitted eyes. "I never said that. Just tell me what you have in mind."

"Oh, holding out the suspense, are you? Fine, fine," Jim said at his daughter's pointed look. "It's just like this, sweetie-pie. You'll just pretend that your mean old daddy – me, obviously – abuses you, or maybe you don't like his work. He scares you, either way. So you run to Baker Street, naturally, because you heard daddy talking about the great Sherlock Holmes, and figured that he could help you out. You want our dearest Sherly and his pet to give you shelter and protection – temporarily of course, until you think of somewhere better you can go. While you're at Baker Street, you'll be looking for any information you can find about Sherlock – thoughts, feelings, fears and weaknesses, that sort of thing. Find out what makes him tick. Maybe go through his things when he's not home, even – try and find out about his past if you can, but remember that he's got eyes like a hawk. You'll be reporting to me frequently, of course. That's your only job, Genny-dear."

Jim smiled at Genevieve, quite proud of himself. He had originally planned on getting the information himself, by allowing Sherlock's older brother Mycroft to capture him, and then bribing him into revealing information about Sherlock. Jim thought that this was a much better plan, though – less room for things to go wrong.

Genevieve stared at him for a minute, and Jim could practically see the gears turning inside her head. "How will I get the information to you if I'm staying at Baker Street?"

Jim grinned. "Oh, lovey, but that's the best part! Sherlock Holmes has a land-lady, you see, Mrs. Hudson. She's a sweet old dear, I think she'd be willing to help you mail a letter to a friend, don't you? Those mean old boys won't let you, but Mrs. Hudson likes you, see. There's no harm in keeping in contact with your friends…"He trailed off, raising an eyebrow.

"Don't you think that's a little bit suspicious, though? Sherlock Holmes is supposed to be a genius, he'll figure it out if he's really that smart."

"Not if they're infrequent, honey-bun. It's like taking one chocolate out of a big, full jar – no one notices! It's only when you take half the chocolates out that someone begins to suspect."

Genevieve rolled her eyes. "That doesn't even make sense in this context, dad…and Sherlock Holmes isn't just 'someone', is he?"

Jim smirked proudly at his daughter. She was such a smartie-pants, just like him. "He'll notice eventually, of course, but by the time that he does, I'll already have the information that I need. You can send me a letter once a month, giving me an update and letting me know if you need more time. I'll have eyes on you of course. I've got cameras all around their little flat."

"Wait," said Genevieve slowly, a glare forming on her face. "I'll be there for more than a month?"

Jim shrugged nonchalantly, hoping that she wouldn't become upset again. That would be tiresome. "Maybe, love, but it all depends on how quickly I get the information I need."

Genevieve sunk down onto her pillow, staring at the ceiling.

"What's in it for me?"

Jim raised an eyebrow. He had hoped that she would ask this question, to be honest – he had always tried to drill the idea of 'don't do anything for free' into her. She was definitely his daughter! "Greedy, greedy, Genny. What is it that you want?"

Genevieve smiled. "A…quarter million pounds for every month I'm there."

Jim considered that. "That'll only encourage you to stay with Sherly longer, sweetheart. What about…I give you one million for a one month project. Every month that passes, that number drops by 100,000."

Genevieve lifted her chin slightly. "Two million."

Jim took a deep breath, looking up towards the heavens as though asking what he had done to deserve this. It was an act, of course – he was immeasurably proud of how his daughter was acting. It was proof that he had raised her well. "You already get allowance, honey," he said, frowning. Then he grinned. "But, as you wish. The number goes down 200, 000 for every month it takes, then.

Genevieve smiled briefly, obviously at Jim's hilarious quip, and Jim couldn't help but smile back. "So, essentially, I'll be going to live with Sherlock Holmes, telling him that I ran away in order to escape my abusive, scary daddy. I'm going to be secretly spying on him, and communicating my findings to you by letter, sent by the kind-hearted land-lady. I'll get two million at the end of the project, depending on how quickly I get you the information. Is that right?"

Jim nodded. "Yes, exacta-mundo!"

Genevieve bit her lip, and Jim sighed. What now? "I don't like getting mixed up in your work, dad. I don't care about the money. This is dangerous and I don't want to get involved in the…the…whatever you have with Sherlock Holmes, I don't want any part in it. What makes you think I can pull this off, anyway?"

Jim leaned back, smiling at her. "Honey, you've been lying all your life. You lied to the little kiddies at school, up until I pulled you out…except for that one girl, she was horrid, wasn't she? You lie to the guards when you're bored – they report to me, remember, I know these things – …I'm sure you even lie to me! You've taken acting lessons as well, Genevieve, dear…so truly, I think that you're perfect for the job."

Jim felt a tug at the corners of his mouth as he remembered Genevieve's acting classes. He had hired a private teacher for her, sure that she would be a natural actor, just as he was. She loathed having to go, but in the end – whoops! It turned out she was better than the teacher, after a bit of coaching. Definitely like her father.

Genevieve sighed at Jim's explanation. "I…" she closed her eyes tightly, taking a breath and then opening them. "I can't believe I'm agreeing to this, I truly can't, but fine. You win. Fine."

Jim smirked. "You would have said yes anyway, in the end."

"Don't you dare," said Genevieve, clenching her teeth. "Don't you dare do that. I said yes, that's that. Don't rub it in."

Jim stood up, smoothing out his suit and leaning over to kiss her forehead. "Okee-dokee. Thank you, love."

Genevieve frowned. "Fine, whatever. Anything to feed your sick obsession." She paused, smiling slightly. "You should just tell him, you know."

Jim furrowed his eyebrows. "Tell who what?"

"Tell Sherlock Holmes that you're hopelessly in love with him." Jim huffed. Brat. He was absolutely not in _love _with Sherlock Holmes. He found him interesting, sure, and Sherly _was _quite attractive – perhaps it was the fact that he was so unattainable – but what he felt wasn't love. Absolutely not. Sherlock was fun!

"I'm not _in love with him_, dear. He's a game to me – a worthy opponent, at long last!" Jim waved his arms dramatically, enjoying the amused look in Genevieve's eyes. She always seemed to laugh at his jokes – quite good for his ego, she was.

"Yeah, okay. When are we doing this thing, anyway?"

Jim scratched his head, considering. He needed that information soon if his ultimate goal – burning Sherlock – was to be carried out correctly. "Is tomorrow too early?"

Genevieve sighed, "Gee, give me _twelve hours notice_, why don't you. Fine. Anything special I should be doing?"

Jim smiled at her affectionately. _That _was his girl! Always ready to get the job done, even on a moment's notice. She would be amazing for the company, one day, if she ever decided that she wanted it…."Nothing special, honey-bun. Just shower, get dressed, eat breakfast like normal tomorrow. Make sure that you don't do anything different – Sherly can tell your mood from the way you button up your coat, he can. Come see me once you're super duper ready – and don't forget to pretend that it's a normal day!"

Genevieve nodded, yawning. "Alright. See you tomorrow, then." She rolled over, pulling the duvet up and closing her eyes.

Jim stood there for a moment before walking out of the room. He paused at the doorway. "I'm assuming you want your light off, love?"

"Yes," came Genevieve's rather short-sounding reply. Jim sighed. Teenagers. She was probably regretting her decision, now. Well, too bad! She would just have to deal with that.

Jim flicked the overhead light off. "Nightie night, don't let the bed bugs bite," he whispered as he walked out of the room, closing the door behind him.

When he was outside Genevieve's room, he finally let himself go, grinning widely and doing a little dance. She had agreed! _She had agreed! _She would have gone through with the plan whether she agreed to it or not, obviously, but it was so much _easier _this way. Of course, Jim would have to do a bit of digging around on his own in order to gather as much information about The Great Sherlock Holmes as possible…but for now he could simply revel in this one small victory.

It was a relief, truly. He could finally begin to put his plan into action. In a few months, Sherlock would get the most excitement he had ever had in his life. He would never be bored again!

Jim hummed happily to himself as he sauntered down the stairs.


End file.
